In a world far removed from the rustic territories of Tepr, beyond the jagged peaks of the Tengr Mountains, lies Pezijil—capital of the powerful Moukopl Empire. A jewel of civilization, Pezijil sits at the center of a vast web of power, commerce, and cultural influence. The city is ringed by a formidable wall, which itself is encircled by a deep, wide moat, a second line of defense against any would-be invaders. Towering gates stand as guarded entrances, their wood and metalwork ornately carved with the stories of past Moukopl emperors and mythical creatures, symbols of the empire’s might and majesty.
As one enters the city, they are greeted by a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells. Bustling markets offer a myriad of exotic goods—fine silks, precious gemstones, rare spices, and medicinal herbs gathered from the far reaches of the empire and beyond. The air is filled with the complex aromas of incense from distant lands, mingling with the scent of freshly cooked street foods. Hawkers cry out their wares in a cacophony of languages, as Pezijil is nothing if not a cosmopolitan hub, home to peoples from diverse backgrounds, all living under the protective wings of the empire.
The streets are organized in a meticulous grid. Paved with stone and lined with willows, they lead to various districts, each with its own distinctive character. There is a district for artisans, another for merchants, one for scholars, and so on. Temples and pagodas rise skyward, their rooftops adorned with golden statues and ornaments that gleam in the sunlight. Here and there, public gardens offer spots of tranquility, complete with carefully manicured trees, artfully arranged rock formations, and ponds filled with colorful koi fish.
But the heart of Pezijil is the imperial palace, a sprawling complex set within its own set of walls, almost like a city within a city. The palace is an architectural marvel, constructed with beams of golden cypress and roof tiles of glistening jade. Dragons, phoenixes, and other mythical creatures are intricately carved into its pillars and eaves, each a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Wide courtyards separate various halls and chambers, and everywhere one looks, there are symbols of power and divine authority.
Inside the palace, the air seems to be of a different quality, heavier perhaps, laden with the gravity of decisions that shape the destiny of the empire and its subjects. The halls are lined with magnificent tapestries and paintings, chronicling the history and legends of Moukopl. An army of servants, eunuchs, and officials scurry about, their faces set in masks of diligent concentration.
Pezijil is a city of dreams for many, but for a boy named Gujel, it has always been home. He was born into privilege, the child of General Tumai and the scholarly, regal Lirimer. Both were not just esteemed members of society, but integral pillars holding up the very structure of the empire’s elite class.
His father, General Tumai, had commanded legions, his reputation both awe-inspiring and fear-inducing. A stern man with eyes like steel traps, Tumai was known for his relentless pursuit of victory and his unforgiving nature toward defeat. No battle was too challenging, no enemy too formidable for him. From a young age, Gujel looked up to his father, his eyes full of awe and a desperate need for approval.
His mother, Lirimer, was a woman of unparalleled intellect and beauty. Born into affluence, she had the luxury of education and the time to develop her keen interest in literature, history, and politics. Though her voice was rarely sought in the public sphere—being a woman in a male-dominated society—her opinions were highly respected in the circles that mattered, including the ear of her influential husband. From her, Gujel inherited his thirst for knowledge and an insatiable curiosity about the world.
Despite the illustrious family he was born into, or perhaps because of it, Gujel always felt trapped. The mansion, with its silk drapes and walls filled with ancestral portraits, felt less like home and more like an opulent prison. From an early age, he was aware that much was expected of him. He was to be his father’s successor, not just in name but in might; he was to be his mother’s prodigy, a living testament to her intelligence and refinement.
He had tutors in swordsmanship and strategy, in poetry and philosophy. Every moment of his life was accounted for, every second a step toward fulfilling a destiny that was decided before he was even born. And as the years rolled by, Gujel found himself asking a question that grew louder in his mind with each passing day: is this all there is?
As a child, he’d stand by the window, looking past the stone walls and lush gardens, over the sprawling city to the mountains beyond, wondering what lay on the other side.
His father, a distinguished scholar and accomplished soldier, envisioned a path for him that mirrored his own—a life forged in the crucible of battle and intellectual pursuits. Yet, Gujel found himself more captivated by the wisdom of his mother, a woman of great intelligence and eloquence.
Gujel’s mother possessed a library that would rival any in the empire. It was a sanctuary of knowledge, lined wall-to-wall with ancient tomes, scrolls, and manuscripts. She had an insatiable thirst for wisdom, and it was there, amid the ink and parchment, that young Gujel felt most alive. While his father took him to the training fields, teaching him the art of war, his mother took him on a different kind of journey, one that meandered through the labyrinthine corridors of the human mind and spirit.
She read to him from the classic Moukopl texts, imbuing him with philosophical doctrines, moral conundrums, and ethical quandaries. Together, they explored the works of poets and philosophers, dissecting each line and verse, pondering their implications. Gujel found himself entranced by the power of words, the way they could change perceptions, evoke emotions, and define civilizations. He believed, just as his mother did, that true strength lay not solely in the might of one’s arm but in the depth of one’s intellect.
However, the society he lived in was not as forgiving. The Moukopl empire, mighty and dominant, had little room for those who defied conventional norms. Though his father respected his wife’s intelligence, he considered it more of a charming quirk rather than an essential component of her identity.
As a young boy, one of the most magical moments in Gujel’s life occurred one quiet evening in his mother’s library. Lirimer retrieved a set of carefully preserved parchment scrolls, encased in a weathered wooden box and covered in a layer of dust. The scrolls were yellowed with age, and the script was unlike anything Gujel had ever seen before.
“This,” she said, her eyes glowing with the secret she was about to reveal, “is written in the language of the Bugr Empire, an empire that once stretched so far it seemed to hold the whole world in its grasp.”
She unrolled the scroll carefully, treating each section as if it were a delicate artifact. Together, they delved into its contents, Lirimer translating as they went, the ancient words flowing from her lips like a lost melody. It was a manuscript of philosophy, tackling questions about human nature, justice, and the cosmos—questions Gujel never knew could be asked. His mind expanded with each passage, as if a new universe was unfolding inside him.”The Bugr Empire was magnificent, Gujel,” his mother told him, her voice tinged with a mix of awe and melancholy. “It was a civilization that prized not only might but wisdom. They were explorers, scholars, and poets. But the Moukopl Empire, jealous of their past glory, has erased them from our history, even outlawing their language.”
For Gujel, this revelation was like discovering a hidden room in a house he thought he knew by heart. How could something so grand be erased, hidden away as if it never existed? His excitement got the better of him. Fueled by the romantic idealism of youth, he believed that sharing this newfound knowledge would be a moment of bonding with his father, who surely, he thought, would be as amazed and enlightened as he was.
However, when he excitedly broached the subject with General Tumai later that evening, the room went cold. His father’s eyes narrowed, his face flushed with an emotion that Gujel couldn’t quite place but instinctively knew to fear.
“What nonsense is this?” General Tumai roared, his voice echoing through the halls of their estate. “Bugr Empire? Fairy tales and vanquished ghosts have no place in this household!”
Before Gujel could react, he felt the sharp sting of his father’s palm against his cheek. The force of the slap knocked him off balance, and he stumbled backward, his eyes watering, both from the pain and the sudden, crushing realization that his father was not the man he’d hoped he was.
Tumai stormed out of the room and headed straight to Lirimer’s library. What happened behind those closed doors remained a mystery to Gujel, but when his mother emerged, her eyes were red, and her expression was one of subdued sorrow. No words were exchanged between the family members that night, but a silence settled over the house—a silence far more deafening than any words could ever be.
In a tearful apology, Gujel approached his mother, who held him close. Lirimer understood the naivety that children often carried, and she knew that his mistake had been made with good intentions at heart. Her eyes, still tinged with a sorrow only a mother could know, softened as she looked into her son’s.
Settling into the plush chairs that had borne witness to countless hours of learning and enlightenment, Lirimer revealed a secret she’d held close to her heart. “You see, Gujel,” she began cautiously, her eyes distant as if peering into the past, “the texts I possess in this library are more than just a collection of forgotten wisdom. They’re part of our heritage. Many in the Moukopl Empire have Bugr blood running through their veins but have forgotten their roots. You descend directly from them.”
Gujel listened intently as his mother unfolded a tale he had never expected to hear.
“Your real name is Tseren,” she told him softly, “and you are not alone. Many heirs of the Bugr are waiting for their second golden age, beyond the northern wall.”
Subjugated by this profound revelation, Tseren learned his lesson well. The weight of his heritage led him to live a life of cautious discretion. He hid his true identity behind the visage of a dutiful son, following in his father’s footsteps.
As years passed, Tseren rose through the ranks to become a general in the Moukopl army. His martial skills were unparalleled, his leadership unquestioned, but a part of him always remained hidden, tucked away like the ancient scrolls in his mother’s library. He married a woman from a wealthy family, fulfilling yet another societal expectation, and together they had two children. The image was perfect, a portrait of success and conformity, but it was not the full picture.
On the rare occasions when his military duties abated, Tseren found solace in the bustling marketplace. He was particularly drawn to traders from lands beyond the northern wall, lands that his mother had told him to be the remnants of the Bugr Empire. The merchants, filled with tales and eager to share, told him about the steppes of Tepr, about the indescribable feeling of freedom that came from riding a horse against the backdrop of an endless sky.
Tseren found himself entranced by these stories. In them, he heard echoes of his mother’s lessons, fragments of a past that had been erased but still called out to him. He realized he longed for that very freedom, a desire that had lain dormant but had never truly disappeared. It was as if those tales of wind-whipped steppes and unbridled liberty spoke to a part of his soul that he had tried to silence but could never truly forget.
The passing of Lirimer was a profound loss for Tseren. Her final days were marked by an inexplicable sickness that no medicine could quell. With her death, a connection to his hidden heritage was severed, leaving Tseren alone to carry the weight of his lineage.
He inherited her library, a room teeming with secrets and ancient wisdom. The collection of scrolls and manuscripts became his sanctuary, a place where he could, for a moment, escape the responsibilities that came with his position and title. Late into the night, he pored over the Bugr texts, deciphering the faded ink and reviving the words that spoke to his soul. His quest for knowledge became relentless, driving him to search for more such texts, even if it meant taking risks.
His first son, Bazhin, showed no interest in the dusty scrolls or in the old language that Tseren sometimes muttered under his breath. But his second son, Tukol, at only 2 years old, found the ancient scripts fascinating. Together, they spent hours in the library, father and son sharing a bond over words written long before their time. Tseren’s wife found this growing relationship between them curious, sometimes peering into the library and watching them with a mixture of bewilderment and caution.
It was during one of his covert excursions that Tseren’s life took a perilous turn. Determined to uncover more Bugr literature, he attempted to sneak into the imperial library—a restricted area under the watchful eyes of a cadre of eunuchs devoted to the empire. He almost made it to the section where he suspected hidden Bugr texts could be, but fate was not on his side. A misplaced step, a creaking floorboard, and he was caught.
The eunuchs, who had long whispered about the general’s odd fascinations, were immediately suspicious. “Forbidden knowledge lurks behind that stern facade,” they reasoned and ordered a search of his residence.
On the night of the search, Tseren had vanished into the ether, as if swallowed by the ancient texts that had so captivated his mind. His home was devoid of his presence, and so were the scrolls of Bugr wisdom he had kept locked away in his library. All that remained was an empty chamber.
Taking along the invaluable scrolls and his most treasured Moukopl texts, Tseren made the fateful decision to disappear. His youngest son, Tukol, wide-eyed but trusting, clung to his father’s hand as they navigated through hidden passages only Tseren knew about. Together, they slipped away from the prying eyes of the empire and its eunuchs, embarking on a perilous journey northward.
“Where are we going, Father?” Tukol’s tiny voice whispered, full of curiosity.
“To a place your grandmother spoke of—a place where the sky touches the earth, and people live by their own rules,” Tseren whispered back, his eyes steeled against the unknown path ahead.
Their journey was fraught with difficulties, from crossing treacherous mountain passes to evading imperial patrols. Yet each step they took seemed guided by the indomitable spirit of Lirimer. It was as if she was leading them to reclaim a heritage long suppressed but never forgotten.
After months of hardship, they finally arrived in the sprawling steppes of Tepr, where the horizon stretched infinitely and the sky seemed a canvas painted in every hue of freedom. Here, far from the machinations of the empire and the watchful eyes that had made his life a prison, Tseren found what he had longed for—a sense of peace and a world where the words of ancient texts could come alive.
In a world far removed from the rustic territories of Tepr, beyond the jagged peaks of the Tengr Mountains, lies Pezijil—capital of the powerful Moukopl Empire. A jewel of civilization, Pezijil sits at the center of a vast web of power, commerce, and cultural influence. The city is ringed by a formidable wall, which itself is encircled by a deep, wide moat, a second line of defense against any would-be invaders. Towering gates stand as guarded entrances, their wood and metalwork ornately carved with the stories of past Moukopl emperors and mythical creatures, symbols of the empire’s might and majesty.
As one enters the city, they are greeted by a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells. Bustling markets offer a myriad of exotic goods—fine silks, precious gemstones, rare spices, and medicinal herbs gathered from the far reaches of the empire and beyond. The air is filled with the complex aromas of incense from distant lands, mingling with the scent of freshly cooked street foods. Hawkers cry out their wares in a cacophony of languages, as Pezijil is nothing if not a cosmopolitan hub, home to peoples from diverse backgrounds, all living under the protective wings of the empire.
The streets are organized in a meticulous grid. Paved with stone and lined with willows, they lead to various districts, each with its own distinctive character. There is a district for artisans, another for merchants, one for scholars, and so on. Temples and pagodas rise skyward, their rooftops adorned with golden statues and ornaments that gleam in the sunlight. Here and there, public gardens offer spots of tranquility, complete with carefully manicured trees, artfully arranged rock formations, and ponds filled with colorful koi fish.
But the heart of Pezijil is the imperial palace, a sprawling complex set within its own set of walls, almost like a city within a city. The palace is an architectural marvel, constructed with beams of golden cypress and roof tiles of glistening jade. Dragons, phoenixes, and other mythical creatures are intricately carved into its pillars and eaves, each a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Wide courtyards separate various halls and chambers, and everywhere one looks, there are symbols of power and divine authority.
Inside the palace, the air seems to be of a different quality, heavier perhaps, laden with the gravity of decisions that shape the destiny of the empire and its subjects. The halls are lined with magnificent tapestries and paintings, chronicling the history and legends of Moukopl. An army of servants, eunuchs, and officials scurry about, their faces set in masks of diligent concentration.
Pezijil is a city of dreams for many, but for a boy named Gujel, it has always been home. He was born into privilege, the child of General Tumai and the scholarly, regal Lirimer. Both were not just esteemed members of society, but integral pillars holding up the very structure of the empire’s elite class.
His father, General Tumai, had commanded legions, his reputation both awe-inspiring and fear-inducing. A stern man with eyes like steel traps, Tumai was known for his relentless pursuit of victory and his unforgiving nature toward defeat. No battle was too challenging, no enemy too formidable for him. From a young age, Gujel looked up to his father, his eyes full of awe and a desperate need for approval.
His mother, Lirimer, was a woman of unparalleled intellect and beauty. Born into affluence, she had the luxury of education and the time to develop her keen interest in literature, history, and politics. Though her voice was rarely sought in the public sphere—being a woman in a male-dominated society—her opinions were highly respected in the circles that mattered, including the ear of her influential husband. From her, Gujel inherited his thirst for knowledge and an insatiable curiosity about the world.
Despite the illustrious family he was born into, or perhaps because of it, Gujel always felt trapped. The mansion, with its silk drapes and walls filled with ancestral portraits, felt less like home and more like an opulent prison. From an early age, he was aware that much was expected of him. He was to be his father’s successor, not just in name but in might; he was to be his mother’s prodigy, a living testament to her intelligence and refinement.
He had tutors in swordsmanship and strategy, in poetry and philosophy. Every moment of his life was accounted for, every second a step toward fulfilling a destiny that was decided before he was even born. And as the years rolled by, Gujel found himself asking a question that grew louder in his mind with each passing day: is this all there is?
As a child, he’d stand by the window, looking past the stone walls and lush gardens, over the sprawling city to the mountains beyond, wondering what lay on the other side.
His father, a distinguished scholar and accomplished soldier, envisioned a path for him that mirrored his own—a life forged in the crucible of battle and intellectual pursuits. Yet, Gujel found himself more captivated by the wisdom of his mother, a woman of great intelligence and eloquence.
Gujel’s mother possessed a library that would rival any in the empire. It was a sanctuary of knowledge, lined wall-to-wall with ancient tomes, scrolls, and manuscripts. She had an insatiable thirst for wisdom, and it was there, amid the ink and parchment, that young Gujel felt most alive. While his father took him to the training fields, teaching him the art of war, his mother took him on a different kind of journey, one that meandered through the labyrinthine corridors of the human mind and spirit.
She read to him from the classic Moukopl texts, imbuing him with philosophical doctrines, moral conundrums, and ethical quandaries. Together, they explored the works of poets and philosophers, dissecting each line and verse, pondering their implications. Gujel found himself entranced by the power of words, the way they could change perceptions, evoke emotions, and define civilizations. He believed, just as his mother did, that true strength lay not solely in the might of one’s arm but in the depth of one’s intellect.
However, the society he lived in was not as forgiving. The Moukopl empire, mighty and dominant, had little room for those who defied conventional norms. Though his father respected his wife’s intelligence, he considered it more of a charming quirk rather than an essential component of her identity.
As a young boy, one of the most magical moments in Gujel’s life occurred one quiet evening in his mother’s library. Lirimer retrieved a set of carefully preserved parchment scrolls, encased in a weathered wooden box and covered in a layer of dust. The scrolls were yellowed with age, and the script was unlike anything Gujel had ever seen before.
“This,” she said, her eyes glowing with the secret she was about to reveal, “is written in the language of the Bugr Empire, an empire that once stretched so far it seemed to hold the whole world in its grasp.”
She unrolled the scroll carefully, treating each section as if it were a delicate artifact. Together, they delved into its contents, Lirimer translating as they went, the ancient words flowing from her lips like a lost melody. It was a manuscript of philosophy, tackling questions about human nature, justice, and the cosmos—questions Gujel never knew could be asked. His mind expanded with each passage, as if a new universe was unfolding inside him.”The Bugr Empire was magnificent, Gujel,” his mother told him, her voice tinged with a mix of awe and melancholy. “It was a civilization that prized not only might but wisdom. They were explorers, scholars, and poets. But the Moukopl Empire, jealous of their past glory, has erased them from our history, even outlawing their language.”
For Gujel, this revelation was like discovering a hidden room in a house he thought he knew by heart. How could something so grand be erased, hidden away as if it never existed? His excitement got the better of him. Fueled by the romantic idealism of youth, he believed that sharing this newfound knowledge would be a moment of bonding with his father, who surely, he thought, would be as amazed and enlightened as he was.
However, when he excitedly broached the subject with General Tumai later that evening, the room went cold. His father’s eyes narrowed, his face flushed with an emotion that Gujel couldn’t quite place but instinctively knew to fear.
“What nonsense is this?” General Tumai roared, his voice echoing through the halls of their estate. “Bugr Empire? Fairy tales and vanquished ghosts have no place in this household!”
Before Gujel could react, he felt the sharp sting of his father’s palm against his cheek. The force of the slap knocked him off balance, and he stumbled backward, his eyes watering, both from the pain and the sudden, crushing realization that his father was not the man he’d hoped he was.
Tumai stormed out of the room and headed straight to Lirimer’s library. What happened behind those closed doors remained a mystery to Gujel, but when his mother emerged, her eyes were red, and her expression was one of subdued sorrow. No words were exchanged between the family members that night, but a silence settled over the house—a silence far more deafening than any words could ever be.
In a tearful apology, Gujel approached his mother, who held him close. Lirimer understood the naivety that children often carried, and she knew that his mistake had been made with good intentions at heart. Her eyes, still tinged with a sorrow only a mother could know, softened as she looked into her son’s.
Settling into the plush chairs that had borne witness to countless hours of learning and enlightenment, Lirimer revealed a secret she’d held close to her heart. “You see, Gujel,” she began cautiously, her eyes distant as if peering into the past, “the texts I possess in this library are more than just a collection of forgotten wisdom. They’re part of our heritage. Many in the Moukopl Empire have Bugr blood running through their veins but have forgotten their roots. You descend directly from them.”
Gujel listened intently as his mother unfolded a tale he had never expected to hear.
“Your real name is Tseren,” she told him softly, “and you are not alone. Many heirs of the Bugr are waiting for their second golden age, beyond the northern wall.”
Subjugated by this profound revelation, Tseren learned his lesson well. The weight of his heritage led him to live a life of cautious discretion. He hid his true identity behind the visage of a dutiful son, following in his father’s footsteps.
As years passed, Tseren rose through the ranks to become a general in the Moukopl army. His martial skills were unparalleled, his leadership unquestioned, but a part of him always remained hidden, tucked away like the ancient scrolls in his mother’s library. He married a woman from a wealthy family, fulfilling yet another societal expectation, and together they had two children. The image was perfect, a portrait of success and conformity, but it was not the full picture.
On the rare occasions when his military duties abated, Tseren found solace in the bustling marketplace. He was particularly drawn to traders from lands beyond the northern wall, lands that his mother had told him to be the remnants of the Bugr Empire. The merchants, filled with tales and eager to share, told him about the steppes of Tepr, about the indescribable feeling of freedom that came from riding a horse against the backdrop of an endless sky.
Tseren found himself entranced by these stories. In them, he heard echoes of his mother’s lessons, fragments of a past that had been erased but still called out to him. He realized he longed for that very freedom, a desire that had lain dormant but had never truly disappeared. It was as if those tales of wind-whipped steppes and unbridled liberty spoke to a part of his soul that he had tried to silence but could never truly forget.
The passing of Lirimer was a profound loss for Tseren. Her final days were marked by an inexplicable sickness that no medicine could quell. With her death, a connection to his hidden heritage was severed, leaving Tseren alone to carry the weight of his lineage.
He inherited her library, a room teeming with secrets and ancient wisdom. The collection of scrolls and manuscripts became his sanctuary, a place where he could, for a moment, escape the responsibilities that came with his position and title. Late into the night, he pored over the Bugr texts, deciphering the faded ink and reviving the words that spoke to his soul. His quest for knowledge became relentless, driving him to search for more such texts, even if it meant taking risks.
His first son, Bazhin, showed no interest in the dusty scrolls or in the old language that Tseren sometimes muttered under his breath. But his second son, Tukol, at only 2 years old, found the ancient scripts fascinating. Together, they spent hours in the library, father and son sharing a bond over words written long before their time. Tseren’s wife found this growing relationship between them curious, sometimes peering into the library and watching them with a mixture of bewilderment and caution.
It was during one of his covert excursions that Tseren’s life took a perilous turn. Determined to uncover more Bugr literature, he attempted to sneak into the imperial library—a restricted area under the watchful eyes of a cadre of eunuchs devoted to the empire. He almost made it to the section where he suspected hidden Bugr texts could be, but fate was not on his side. A misplaced step, a creaking floorboard, and he was caught.
The eunuchs, who had long whispered about the general’s odd fascinations, were immediately suspicious. “Forbidden knowledge lurks behind that stern facade,” they reasoned and ordered a search of his residence.
On the night of the search, Tseren had vanished into the ether, as if swallowed by the ancient texts that had so captivated his mind. His home was devoid of his presence, and so were the scrolls of Bugr wisdom he had kept locked away in his library. All that remained was an empty chamber.
Taking along the invaluable scrolls and his most treasured Moukopl texts, Tseren made the fateful decision to disappear. His youngest son, Tukol, wide-eyed but trusting, clung to his father’s hand as they navigated through hidden passages only Tseren knew about. Together, they slipped away from the prying eyes of the empire and its eunuchs, embarking on a perilous journey northward.
“Where are we going, Father?” Tukol’s tiny voice whispered, full of curiosity.
“To a place your grandmother spoke of—a place where the sky touches the earth, and people live by their own rules,” Tseren whispered back, his eyes steeled against the unknown path ahead.
Their journey was fraught with difficulties, from crossing treacherous mountain passes to evading imperial patrols. Yet each step they took seemed guided by the indomitable spirit of Lirimer. It was as if she was leading them to reclaim a heritage long suppressed but never forgotten.
After months of hardship, they finally arrived in the sprawling steppes of Tepr, where the horizon stretched infinitely and the sky seemed a canvas painted in every hue of freedom. Here, far from the machinations of the empire and the watchful eyes that had made his life a prison, Tseren found what he had longed for—a sense of peace and a world where the words of ancient texts could come alive.
